


The Wolf with the Red Roses

by BlanketFortAvenger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort, Complete, Fluff, Getting Together, Good Peter Hale, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Canon Compliant, POV Stiles Stilinski, Praise Kink, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Gestures, Roses, Stiles Stilinski is old enough to buy alcohol, Wolf Peter Hale, valentines fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22718563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlanketFortAvenger/pseuds/BlanketFortAvenger
Summary: Stiles decides to court Peter for Valentines as a surprise. He begins to doubt himself, and great minds do think alike.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 12
Kudos: 278





	The Wolf with the Red Roses

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me through a song. I'm counting on at least some of you knowing it. I have not been subtle. Also, where I am we have Valentines in summer, and it indeed is hot, which would have fit so much better with the song. Alas. Hope you enjoy.

Despite the timid winter’s evening, the kitchen of Stiles’ apartment is sweltering. His sweater is really living up to its purpose, as he leans into the heat of the open oven. He shoves the bain-marie into the hellish vessel with all the care of someone passing back a wailing child to its parent, before letting the door close with a soft thud. Wiping his brow, he sets a timer for an hour, and starts to clean up some of the spilled breadcrumbs. If he only takes twenty minutes in the shower, and ten to choose what to wear, then he’s still got plenty of time to double, triple, and quadruple doubt his decisions.

Stiles uses his sleeve to wipe down the bottle of Bordeaux that he picks up off of the table. The vintage isn’t too impressive, only a decade old. He has no reason to believe that he won’t be rejected, or worse, humiliated. No faith, but a faint hope that Peter can put aside his sardonic wit, just for a moment, to let him down gently.

Stiles groans, placing the wine back down on the table, next to his keys and coat. Stiles’ only consolation was that Cora’s attempts to persuade her uncle to ask someone out for Valentines had failed, and he knew that Peter would be home alone. Cora had then narrowed her focus in on him, but he’d told her that he already had plans, and not hearing a lie, she let it be. At least there’d be no audience for whatever turn of events might await him.

When Stiles arrives at the door to Peter’s apartment, he can sense that there’s an unnatural quiet and stillness of the other side. Immediately he feels his nerves subside, and an uneasiness swell in their place. His fist lands too timidly at first, fearful of acknowledging that something might be amiss. Then, it lands too heavy with panic, nothing like how he’d wanted to announce his arrival.

Suddenly, a thought slaps him across the brow. Peter knows what day it is. He would know why Stiles was here, and now he might even be refusing to open the door. Or worse, Peter knows what day it is, because he’s got someone else in his apartment right now. Stiles turns abruptly, and is summoning the strength to rush home, and survive tomorrow’s hangover, when he hears a high keening whine from the other side of the door. He stops. The sound didn’t sound pleasurable – it didn’t sound human.

“Peter?” Stiles calls quietly, painfully, knowing the ‘wolf will hear him, but there’s no answer. His uneasiness returns. Then a sound, just as quiet as Stiles’ plea. Stiles doesn’t hesitate. He uses his spare key to open the door.

There’s red everywhere, and Stiles sucks in a gasp, only for it to get caught up in the back of his throat. He lets it out in a slow leak of air when his eyes adjust to the dim light, and he can see what’s causing the crimson covering Peter’s apartment. Rose petals. Even some whole flowers, buds still dangling from only marginally mangled stems. Stiles was reluctant to think of roses in anything but dozens, but there was no denying that there had to be hundreds here – torn, scattered, and wilting across the floor. Then Stiles’ eyes fall upon glowing blue.

The dark grey ‘wolf stands stiffly on the couch cushions. It’s not Peter’s usual stillness, it’s too awkward. As if Peter isn’t sure of when defeat itself will give in to shame, and he’ll run. Stiles realises unbelievingly that Peter is embarrassed. He feels a surge of disappointment run through him, followed by a disproportionate anger. Whoever had done this to Peter, he’d make sure that they got what they deserved. Slowly, he walks to the kitchen counter to place down his gifts, before going to sit on the other end of the couch from the ‘wolf.

“I’m in no position to mock you, so you don’t have to worry”. Stiles begins, defeated in his own way. For once Peter, in his shock, hadn’t seemed to put two and two together. “There really only can be one reason that I’m here…” Stiles tries not to look dejected. He doesn’t want to seem like he’s taking advantage. He wants Peter to know that despite his original intentions in coming, he was here now, as a friend – as pack. He notices when the sentence seems to jolt through the ‘wolf, and continues. “Even if my feelings weren’t as strong as they are, I can say this…”

Stiles lets his eyes lift to the ‘wolf then, lets a tilt lift his lips in a sympathetic smirk. “Peter Hale you are wit-incarnated as a wet-dream, and I know that you know that”. The ‘wolf huffs and starts to step across the short distance between them. Stiles reaches for him, running his fingers comfortingly through the fur over either side of the ‘wolf’s shoulders. If he had any concern for their friendship it had been soothed. “You’re passionate, dedicated, magnificent, strong. Whoever it was, whatever they said, they don’t deserve you, Peter. You deserve someone who can offer you the same”.

After a moment of the ‘wolf watching him, a more natural stillness settles between them both. Peter turns away to pick up one of the less damaged roses, and drops it in Stiles’ lap. Stiles smiles sadly at it. Then, before he can even reach for the bloom, the ‘wolf climbs into his lap too, his weight pushing Stiles backwards and down into the cushions.

“Wait, Peter, I…” Stiles’ sentence dissolves into laughter. There’s a tongue lapping at his throat, and Stiles is laughing with relief, and with how ticklish it is. When the ‘wolf’s jaws lock gently to his shoulder, Stiles stills. There’s a severity, a serious kind of tension that makes him truly realise what’s being said. Pack don’t leave. It’s Peter’s own permission for him to feel, a promise that they’ll still be together despite whatever feelings might try to tarnish their relationship.

Stiles recognises when the fangs shift from canine to human, and then he has his arms full of a shirtless Peter. They both breathe a deep sigh, the weight of the evening being carried off on it, even though Stiles knows that he’ll feel double its weight in sorrow later, when he is alone. He doesn’t move except to shift his shoulders into a more comfortable position. Peter looks over his face, scrutinising, or categorising. Stiles locks his gaze with that transfixing blue. He whispers an unfinished question. “Peter?”.

Suddenly, Stiles’ arms are being pinned to either side of his head, palms to palms, fingers interlocking with his. Peter lifts his face to Stiles’, eyes glinting. The other man’s lips brush past Stiles’ cheek as he leans in to whisper in Stiles’ ear. His voice is rough from the shift.

“You told Cora that you had a date for Valentines”. Peter noses at Stiles’ temple, giving the young man time to draw his conclusions. “I had already ordered the roses two weeks before”. Stiles feels the heat rise in his cheeks.

“Oh shit”. Peter cuts of Stiles’ apology, running the shadow of his lips down the side of the young man’s neck, as he continues his explanation.

“They arrived today, and Stiles, I just saw red”. A delighted, nervous bubble of laughter forces its way out from within Stiles’ chest.

“I’m an idiot,” he chuckles.

“Maybe,” Peter agrees, but he lifts his head to grin softly at Stiles. Some of his hair falls loose around his face, and it makes him look softer. “I thought I’d missed my chance,” Peter sighs. He seems exhausted.

“I wasn’t sure I even had one,” Stiles admits, and Peter blinks at him disbelievingly, before his expression hardens. Peter’s lashes look heavy all of a sudden, his voice dropping low, into something beyond a growl. Into something smooth, but commanding.

“Offer me your throat”. Stiles is stunned, but swiftly relents, looking up at Peter with a reverence he only ever rarely lets himself feel for the other man. He doesn’t lose Peter’s gaze, but he does turn to offer up the length of his neck. Peter hums in approval, leaning in to graze his teeth against the pulse there. “Stiles. Intelligent, loyal, brave, brilliant, mischief,” Peter whispers the praise into his skin “You deserve everything, perhaps more than I can give”. Peter hushes him when Stiles goes to argue. “I’ve hungered for you for so long,” Peter sighs, and punctuates the words with a gentle bite. Stiles breathes an unsteady breath in and back out again. “Only you. I’d starve without you. Do you understand?”

Stiles can feel his heart leaping to where angels fear to tread. All he can do is nod in answer, with some unspoken consent. Peter strokes Stiles’ cheek to get him to look at him again, where the young man’s eyes had fluttered shut. “I offer you my jaws. To protect you”. Stiles looks deep into those blue eyes, and he feels lightheaded. He has known for years now that they’d die for each other, but it had never been spoken. “I offer you my teeth, to mark you”. Stiles gasps softly at that, swallowing and nodding shallowly once again. He sees when Peter glances at his lips, he doesn’t look away as he says, “I offer you my mouth…” Stiles can’t take it anymore.

He strains up against Peter’s hold to press desperate kisses, and breathy ‘yeses’ to Peter’s lips. Peter let’s his hands go, so that they can wrap their arms around one another, sitting up to pull Stiles into his lap.

“I brought, mm,” Stiles is interrupted when Peter pulls his lip between his teeth. “Dinner, it’s getting cold”. They break apart to rest their brows together, panting against one another. Peter has a hand clasped to the side of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles has both his arms over Peter’s shoulders. Peter inhales deeply.

“Is that venison?” Stiles laughs hollowly, barely any air in his lungs to sustain it.

“It’s meatloaf,” he confirms, leaning into Peter’s warmth, pressing his hands against the other’s chest. Peter’s arms stay wrapped around him, and neither of them move despite the mention of food.

“How romantic,” Peter teases.

“It’s the only thing I know how to cook that’ll pair with the wine”. Peter laughs, and Stiles is sure that he could build wings out of the sound.

“What did I do to deserve you?” Peter hums. Not moving very far, and letting his nails drag lightly up the nape of Stiles’ neck. Stiles shivers. He smiles on a sigh, nuzzling into Peter’s shoulder.

“You took the words right out of my mouth”.

**Author's Note:**

> Today happens to be the 4th anniversary of this account. Valentines 2016 clearly forced me to find the love elsewhere. So, thank you to everyone for reading my work over the years, and I wish you all a lovely Valentines.


End file.
